Fractured

I'm wrestling with the idea of this as a "sex blog." It doesn't come naturally to me, this divorce of sex from the rest of my life. I find myself wanting to write down what I did today on a day that, at least on the surface, had very little to do with sex and a lot to do with interactions with my family (my father's health; a text message from my little brother; a conversation with my stepmother), eating like a 12-year-old all day (dinner was a Mexican Coke and some Ruffles . . . yeah, I know), college football (shut up, I can't help it that I was born and raised in Texas, don't judge me), and enjoying some nice down time with Jeff -- in other words, matters that are significant only to me and only because they take place in the larger context of my life.

"So, fine," you may be saying (and by you I mean the insufferable devil's advocate who lives in my brain), "go write about those things in your sweet little vanilla LiveJournal that you've had for so many years. This place is for teh hott sexxors! Enough of your bourgeois nattering!" Well, yes, but. Why can't I just be one person in one place? I started this blog because a lot of my friends (and most of my family) read my LiveJournal, and I know they would be uncomfortable (uh, to put it mildly) with the subject matter of sex, particularly my sex. I'm not afraid of being "outed," in theory. It wouldn't hurt me -- I don't have kids, I work at a fairly enlightened company, and frankly I haven't done much of anything to be outed for (but that could change -- a girl can dream, can't she?). But the idea is scary, because, well, just because it is. People would freak out. They would be afraid of me and for me.

At the same time, I want a place to be whole. I'm not sure why. Something about the artifice of writing about "just sex" gnaws at me. I think about the sex blogs I read, and the images I have of some of the writers. I picture sultry, sophisticated, sexually charged vessels of pure lust and glamour. They have legions of lovers. They wear a lot of black. They're all tall and thin and have advanced degrees in human sexuality and simply reek of desirability. And of course that's not true -- I know they have bills to pay and parents who criticize them and co-workers who irritate them. They just don't write about them. And so they seem elevated above the rest of the noisy, squalling, humdrum world. They glide overhead, weaving webs of sexual intrigue where they play with their willing victims, turning them this way and that to catch the light as they harden into jewels, while the rest of us below sigh with envy.

"Well, jesus, stop sighing and do that, then," you reply. I could . . . in a way that's what I've been doing, I suppose. But it feels incomplete to me. It doesn't feel honest. And it makes for a mighty paltry well of material I can draw on, too. Part of the reason is that, unlike a lot of the established sex bloggers, I'm neither active enough nor experienced enough to have the material to justify keeping a journal devoted exclusively to sex (were I a sex worker, it would make a lot more sense to me). But the main reason is that sex isn't something I can separate out like a yolk from the egg of my life. And for every experience I recount, there are memories evoked, decisions made, fears and joys realized that I want to add like so many footnotes to what I do end up setting down in writing.

"Why does it matter?" you finally exclaim, throwing up your hands. "Write whatever the hell you want here!"

But then I'm just another boring person, I wail.

"All right," you say. "We have reached an impasse."

Hmm. Let me work on it.

"Christ. Fine. While you do that, could you throw up an image that represents this dilemma so I at least have something to look at while you overthink this nonissue?"

Oh, sorry. Sure thing. Here you go.